When I went there, Stephens Junior High School had three grades: seventh, eighth and ninth. Seventh graders went from being the cocky kings of elementary school to the little children everyone else laughed at once they hit junior high.

When you were in ninth grade, you were in charge. You ruled. Life was good, except when it wasn’t.

There was a big difference between the grades. We fought, mostly figuratively. Sometimes it seemed like students were in a sort of war with ourselves and one another over all kinds of nothing.

The principal of our school was both referee and governor. She could mete out punishment on a whim. She had a reputation. I had never been to her office before, but I had heard stories about how she used a rod, how she had thrown a student down a flight of stairs, how the rest of the office workers were afraid of her. If she seemed nice, it was just a ruse, and she was absolutely not to be trusted.

Nothing to worry about, though, because you had to do something really bad to see her. You couldn’t just walk in. You weren’t allowed to even see her without a referral. The staff seemed to work extra hard to make sure you did not go in to her office.

But if you got one of those referrals, you had no choice. You had to see her.

Referrals always got delivered during class, one at a time. Even if a group of students were in trouble, it was a one-at-a-time deal. A student monitor would come into the class and hand the teacher the paper. The teacher would look up and say a name. That was it. The rest of us fell silent. The student stepped forward, took the referral from the teacher, collected his or her things and headed out the door. Solemn silence lingered. One of our own had fallen.

When I hit ninth grade, I had issues at home but I loved school. I played trumpet, and I was getting good. The band teacher had me filing music for him after school and I came in early some days or stayed late to practice. And my English and journalism teachers were encouraging. I fell in love with letters. Now we call them fonts. I was developing an eclectic taste for Stevie Wonder and Igor Stravinsky. I could run fast. Even though I didn’t go out for track, I beat some of the kids who did. That gave me a certain kind of cool that surprised me. I liked that.

Somedays I liked school so much, I didn’t want to go home. It was a haven for me against the struggles I had with my difficult, disabled dad, and my quiet, hard-working mom. I knew they both loved me, but somedays that didn’t matter. I was worried about what I might face when I got home.

Then, early on in the ninth grade, the door opened, a student came in and handed the teacher a referral. I like to think there was a look of shock on her face when she called out, “Wilfred.”

I don’t use it much now, but that’s my given name, named after my dad. That’s the name I went by growing up all through school. If I had gone by Bill or Will, I could have somehow hidden behind those common names thinking that they had the wrong guy. But with a name like that one thing was for sure: there was no other Wilfred in the class or even the whole school. It had to be me. I took the paper from her and looked at it. There it was. My name in black and white.

It was humiliating to stand up, all eyes on me. I stepped out of the class into the metal locker-lined hallway. I walked slowly down the hall, but the slower I walked, the faster my heart started to beat.

What had I done?

This can’t be happening, I thought. What will my parents say? What will my dad do?

As I walked down the hall, I knew. I had been bad.

I learned how to use coarse words at an early age. With my friends I used words like a roughed-up kid on a corn farm in Nebraska, which is where my dad grew up. It wasn't his fault, though, it was mine. My friends and I spent study time in the library thinking of how many different ways we could trash talk each other. We would tear each other down for fun and laugh.

One of the teachers I actually liked heard us. That was embarrassing. It didn’t fit my nice guy image. Maybe she had reported what we had said and done.

Could it have been that?

My mind raced through a variety of other junior high sins I had committed. I was guilty. An array of possible punishments flashed by as I made my way down the hall.

Turning into the office, the friendly lady at reception smiled. I showed her the referral, and she motioned in the direction of the principal's office. This was it. I had to face the music. I walked through the door and saw. . .

. . . my adult sister’s smile.

“I bought this for you today,” she said, “and I wanted to get it to you as soon as I could.”

She had four kids of her own, was a minister's wife, lived what seemed like along way from me, yet there she was. She held the gift out for me to take.

The principal sat behind her desk and didn’t say anything.

Confused, I walked toward my sister and took the gift from her hand.

“This is yours,” she said. “A Bible of your own. You can read it whenever you want and as much as you want.”

It had that new-book smell. A mixture of happiness and relief and joy washed over me.

We had an oversized family Bible at home, but no one read it. This was different. It was clearly published and meant to be read.

I thanked her and we hugged. That was it. She left and I went back to class.

The truth is, my sister knew that, in my own way, I was in trouble, and God’s Word could rescue and save like nothing else in this world. It couldn’t wait till the weekend. She wanted the Bible in my hands the day she got it.

During the days that followed when I got dropped off early for school, I would sit on the school steps, open that Bible and read. I especially remember the Gospels, Job, Acts. The miracles of Jesus. The man who suffered. Paul not dying in the shipwreck and going on to preach, how he kept going no matter what.

My junior high sins didn’t stop, but something else was going on at the same time. God’s grace is so rich.

We’re walking down the hallway toward the punishment we know we deserve. Then, God’s Word is there instead, pointing us to Jesus.

I bless the Lord for Barbara, my amazing, loving sister. She went the extra mile and brought God’s Word to me when I needed it most. That was a referral worth getting.

This Thanksgiving, think of someone in your life who helped you out in a big or little way. Give thanks to God for that person and if you are able, thank him or her, too.